


Love Match

by honestys_easy



Category: Music RPF, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: M/M, Tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-25
Updated: 2010-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestys_easy/pseuds/honestys_easy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy and David play tennis, while Neal plays a different kind of game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Match

**Author's Note:**

> Earlier today David Cook tweeted that he was [playing tennis with Andy Skib](http://twitter.com/thedavidcook/status/28708285659), and because of some conversations it became (of course) a Skibmann fic. It was only until I wrote 75% of this ficlet that he tweeted that [Neal was joining them](http://twitter.com/thedavidcook/status/28735162124). I fucking _swear_ , David Cook. :-\

If it weren’t so blisteringly bright outside, Neal could get used to this.

As it was, he was already freckling under the direct sunlight, his sunglasses only hiding the tiny bit of skin around his eyes, shielding the damaging sun from attacking his retinas. David had offered some of his sunblock, but Neal’s pride refused to let him accept it, and he laughed it off by asking if Dave was gonna slather some zinc oxide on that pretty-boy nose of his next. Monty snatched the bottle at that moment, muttering something about not being built for the West Coast. Andy, just like every summer since Neal knew him, never wore sunblock.

He couldn’t fault the guy, Neal supposed, the benefit of the Skib genes giving him a natural olive complexion, soaking in the sun’s rays, darkening him to a healthy, golden tan in the summers, complementing every fucking part of him. But it had never been easy to keep up with Andy’s active personality when Neal didn’t have the melanin to back it up, his skin turning blotchy and red while Andy’s turned only a deep tan. He relished rainy days and wintertime, when they stayed holed up indoors, playing music, or doing other things.

But today? Neal can manage.

He’s out in the bright sun but at least he’s not exerting himself, the most physical activity he’s done all day being picking up the cold beer bottle in his hand and bringing it to his lips. It’s a private tennis court so David said he could tag along and play ball boy if he wanted, with a wink, provided Neal kept the beers cold for them once the match was over. They could do whatever they wanted, Dave quipped, and Neal wished he could prove his point by shooing the rest of them away and fucking Andy into the baseline.

It’s something to consider, at least, since he’s wasting a whole morning watching other people chuck a fuzzy ball back and forth over a net and considering it “fun.” There’s so much more he could be doing right now, sleeping high on that list, but none were quite this fun.

“Having trouble picking your balls off the ground there, Cook?” he shouted towards the service line after a point most decidedly not ending in David’s favor.

David took a mighty yet empty swing of his racket, miming launching a tennis ball straight at his guitarist’s nose, before batting at a stray ball on his side of the court.

“Oh, I get it.” Neal waggled his eyebrows, finding himself incredibly clever for so early in the day. “You beat your balls until they bounce. Beth know you do such things out in public?”

“Why did we bring you here again?” David said as he squinted against the sun, trying not to look amused with Neal’s pleased grin.

“Because you love me.”

David shot him an incredulous look--which, Neal supposed, was better than shooting that tennis ball he had in his hand. “Me? I don’t love you. He loves you.” He pointed with his racket across the net to his opponent, who was chatting with Marco--probably making strategic plans to hand the American Idol’s ass to him on a platter. “I am considering leaving you in the car the next time we play.”

“With the windows cracked?”

“Only if I can’t hear you from the parking lot.”

Andy was oblivious to the banter being lobbed back and forth between his two friends, though once play resumed and he saw the wide grin on Neal’s face, he had an inkling their doubles game was in for some heckling.

“Thanks for the breeze, boys,” Neal said indulgently as Monty missed an easy return, his racket cutting through the air and not much else.

“Don’t bleed on those tennis whites, that last point was fuckin’ _violent_.”

“Good job of _grindin’_ it out there,” Neal toasted to David after a difficult groundstroke, though it gave David no extra encouragement.

“How do you focus with _that?_ ” David asked Andy, pointing to the spectator in question.

Andy shrugged as he returned Monty’s serve effortlessly. “Spent ten years hearing that heckler out there,” he said, not breaking a sweat over Neal’s playful ribbing from the sidelines. “Hardly listen to him when I’m on the court.”

“You hardly listen to me normally,” Neal hollered, eavesdropping.

This time it was David’s turn to grin. “Leave your bedroom issues off the court, ladies.”

In between sets the players took to joining Neal on the sidelines, Monty and David eyeing Neal’s bucket of Bud Lights as they sipped bottles of water under Marco’s watchful eye. Andy, though the athlete in him knew better, gleefully drank with Neal if only to rub it in his fitness-conscious friends’ faces.

“You know, you are kinda being a dick,” he took Neal aside from the others for a moment, making sure he was once again the glib beacon of clarity in his friend’s morning.

Neal rolled his eyes--as if David Cook never experience heckling before. “If your best friend can’t talk shit when you’re bustin’ your ass in a tennis match,” he conceded, “Then who can?”

He accented his point with a roaming hand sliding around Andy’s waist, down over the curves of his hips and palming his ass through his shorts. Biting his lower lip in a naughty grin, Neal leaned in closer to Andy, until he could feel the heat emanating off his skin from his physical exertion and the sun. “Fuck,” he purred into Andy’s ear. “Do you know how much I wanted to get into these tennis whites back in high school?”

With a genuine smile on his face Andy eased into Neal’s touch, his own arm coming to rest around Neal’s shoulders. “What, you wanted to join the team?” he joked; they had talked about their high school days many times before, how Neal would skip physics class to play the vocal spectator at Andy’s tennis practice each afternoon, and how he shouted from the bleachers because if he ever stood up, the front of his pants would give away why he was really watching.

“And give up being your personal ball boy? Never.” Neal shifted his hips against Andy’s, his cock hardening with the attention, as he slid his thigh in between Andy’s legs inconspicuously.

Andy’s breath caught in his throat and he held back a moan from the contact; his tennis uniform was thin, and meant for comfort when guarding the baseline or scrambling for drop shots, and certainly not built to withstand the sexual ministrations of Neal Tiemann. He felt himself growing hard in those shorts as Neal’s breath danced along the side of his throat, his face, Neal’s pierced lips finally making contact at the lobe of Andy’s ear, sucking and biting softly, tasting its sun-soaked heat.

The arm around Neal’s shoulders tightened, Andy’s hands tangling themselves into his shirt collar as he pulled them closer together. His hips moved on instinct, pulsing against Neal’s body, grinding himself against his thigh. Even with years of experience--both in regards to the tennis court and being in Neal’s embrace--Andy let out a stuttered sigh when he felt Neal’s tongue flick out against his skin, tasting the beads of sweat along his neck.

“Looks like you could use a shower,” he whispered into Andy’s ear, enjoying the vibrations of the chuckle that passed through Andy’s body at the comment.

His mind was wholly distracted by the man in his arms and the thoughts of dragging Andy to the locker room where he could get clean and Neal could delightfully get him dirty again. Neal almost forgot where the couple was standing until a poke at his side that was decidedly not Andy startled him out of his fantasy.

David’s stern glare caught them both, the narrow end of his tennis racket jabbing into Neal’s side, then Andy’s. “Can we attempt to finish this match, gentlemen?” he asked, already knowing that stopping in between sets was a fatal blow to the entire morning.

“Boss-man’s getting testy,” he joked, voice in Andy’s ear but his eyes on David, shooting him a toothy grin.

Unfazed, David rolled his eyes; he was used to his two best friends finding ways to distract one another while on tour, but during tennis practice--particularly since Neal wasn’t even supposed to be there--was definitely new. “Because my ‘boss-man,’” he said, pointing the racket in Marco’s direction, “Wants me to keep my heartrate constant, and if we don’t get back out on the court he’s gonna start me on laps.” He gave Andy the toughest look he could muster. “I am not doing laps, Andy.”

Andy’s tanned skin most definitely reddened underneath his cheeks as he shifted his weight. “...Give me a minute,” he mumbled.

“Andy--”

“Trust me, Dave,” Neal piped up, Andy’s erection still pressed against his thigh. “We _both_ need a minute.”

David walked off back to the tennis court, muttering about his friends not even waiting for privacy anymore, and Neal turned back to the man in his arms to indulge in Andy’s blush. Tilting Andy’s chin up with one hand to catch his gaze, he said with a hint of amusement in his tone, “Just enough time for a towel rubdown instead?”

It won a grin from Andy, one of those Neal found infectious, and it won Neal a peck on the lips, with a promise of more. “Thought we were trying to get rid of these.” He bumped his hip against Neal’s, the visible desire beginning to drain from his crotch, but no where near enough to be presentable in a tennis match. “Unsexy thoughts, Tiemann.”

Neal looked past Andy to a rather impatient threesome waiting for its fourth. “I’m staring at some right now.”

“Mm-hmm. Sorry not all tennis players can be as alluring as me.”

Neal’s gaze turns skyward in thought. “...Nadal is.”

Now it was Andy’s turn to balk; his brow creased in confusion as he held Neal back at arm’s length, incredulous. “Rafael Nadal? You fucking kidding me?”

Neal shrugged, as if he were simply pointing out the facts of the world to Andy. “Nadal. Met him,” he nodded, as his voice went low, like a secret. “He’s hotter than you, Skib.”

“He is not.”

Neal couldn’t help the smirk sneaking out on his lips. “He’s taller than you.”

“Tall does not fucking equate hot, Neal,” Andy protested, taking a step back as he gave Neal’s shoulder a playful shove.

The smirk went full-blown as Neal’s eyes scanned the full length of Andy’s body. “Apparently.”

Andy took in a deep sigh and rolled his eyes, no longer feeling so embarrassed to head back to the game. Neal’s impromptu plan might have worked, but fuck, he could have told him about it first.

“Go kill ‘em,” Neal said, handing Andy his racket. “Or, smash ‘em, or ace ‘em, or...well, fuck, whatever, just go play.”

Laughing, Andy accepted the racket, but instead of taking it whole he used it to pull Neal closer one last time. He may have had a match to finish, but Neal’s best experience with tennis was sitting on the sidelines full of desire--Andy didn’t want that training to go to waste.

“Locker room. Third shower stall on the left,” he whispered into Neal’s ear, feeling the shudder of Neal’s body so close to him. “Wait for me there.”

“Taking me up on that shower offer?” Neal tried to keep the cool, unaffected air in his voice, but it was no use, not when Andy’s breath landed hot on his neck like that, and not when he was still in those tennis shorts...

“And the rubdown.” As Neal tried not to sprint for the locker room, he felt a swift double-handed backhand swing land on the seat of his pants.

“Besides,” Andy called as he went to resume the match. “You’re burnin’ like a roast chicken in this sun, you ass. Get inside, or get some damn sunblock!”


End file.
